Addiction

Thanks for Saving my Life

Many Second Chances Recovery , , , ,

I don’t miss flashing red and blue lights. I don’t miss spending so much time chasing my next escape that I lost who I was. I don’t miss wondering what the hell I did the night before, or why a strange car might be parked in the driveway. I don’t miss trying desperately to remember the complicated, intricate lies I felt I had to tell in order to extend the charade that my life had become.  I don’t miss detox. I don’t miss psych wards. I don’t miss the isolating, soul-crushing feeling of hopelessness, and I don’t miss who I used to be.

I’ve been fortunate to have been given the gift of some time in recovery, and lately I’ve done some reflecting on it all.  One of the things that keeps pushing its way to the forefront is the reality that that I wouldn’t be here without the help of an army of people.  

In a world where common philosophy is to be self-made and self-sufficient, I have come to realize that I can’t even pretend to claim that status, and I’m okay with it. I am a collection of influences, interventions and conversations taken from the people who have crossed my path. It’s past time to thank just a few of the people for crossing when they did. 

Law enforcement

In all my experiences with law enforcement, belligerent as I often was, they were always more than patient with me. With very, very few exceptions, my encounters with law enforcement were positive, even under the often crappy circumstances I pulled them into.  As with life in a small town, we all knew each other, and as with life in addiction, we saw more of each other as time wore on.  But, they always arrived ready to de-escalate and to show empathy and understanding with me, no matter how their days had gone before coming into contact with me.  One of my old hometown officers even drove me to my last detox after he had completed his shift. Others still check in from time to time, and I appreciate that.

Law enforcement officers have tough jobs to do, and I know I didn’t do much to make it easier on them back then. I have a lot of respect for them, especially the guys who served my hometown.

My hometown clinic

When I began this process of recovery after many failed attempts, I planned with the understanding that it would be my last chance. I had to look at things that had gone wrong in previous attempts in order to give myself a better chance at survival.  I had to become willing to try things I wasn’t willing to do before, whatever they might be.

At the time of my recovery, I didn’t receive treatment for opiate addiction and withdrawal. There were no methadone clinics, I didn’t have suboxone, nor any other medication-assisted treatment that today is known to offer the best long-term recovery outcomes.

To add to that, and to make matters more complicated, I wasn’t honest at the time about my relationship with opiates, due at least in part to the stigma associated with it decades ago. As far as that part of my addiction went, I left myself no choice but to go through the withdrawals without the stabilizing benefit of medications.  Being upfront about it could have made things a lot easier, but I wasn’t. Lesson learned.

One of the things that was available for my addiction to alcohol was Disulfiram, or Antabuse. Disulfiram works by blocking the enzyme that breaks down consumed alcohol to acetaldehyde, resulting in a very unpleasant experience.  Without that enzyme, alcohol basically becomes a poison to the body, and the effects of consuming alcohol while taking Disulfiram are nightmarish. In case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve tried it. I don’t recommend it.

When part of my recovery plan called for Antabuse, the people at my hometown clinic welcomed me in after work three days a week for a long, long time.  I was always met with a smile and led to a room, usually without waiting.  They would dispense the medication and allow me to sit for 20 minutes, or however long our conversations would last on a given day.

After they had spent long days tending to people who were sick or injured, they would invest their time to improve my chance at recovery.  Each person I encountered at the clinic treated me like I was the most important person there. Three days a week, every week.  I’ve never forgotten the kindness of the life savers at the clinic in my hometown, and I think of the impact they have had on my recovery often.

Pastor Lewis Thompson

Nothing about me or my environment would lead you to believe I am religious about anything.  While I grew up in a church, I have never had the enthusiasm many have for organized worship.  I’ve always been more private about my relationship with God, the Universe, or whatever it is that carved out all the wonder that is life and existence.

None of my reservations about church membership, singing in the choir, or participating in activities mattered to Pastor Thompson.  When he learned of my struggles, he offered to share his time with me. This is the same man who would, a few months later, end his sabbatical early to return to tend to my Dad’s passing.

I decided to take him up on it, even while playing scenarios in my head about some sort of fire and brimstone message regarding the evils of drink. As it turned out, we had some of the best talks I’ve ever had with anyone about recovery, specifically, and about life in general.

What made those talks memorable was that Pastor Thompson didn’t share so much as an agent of a particular faith bound by a certain message, but rather as a student of the miracle of existence and as an advocate for the power of hope, joy and connection. Pastor Thompson, in my experience, was hope personified. 

There was no quoting of scripture. We would simply talk. He had an entire flock to take care of, so to speak, and he took time with me. There were no lectures on right or wrong, good or bad. Instead, we talked of the tangible and intangible, and that within that mix, the power of change stood. The human spirit as a universal property and a powerful mechanism in the harnessing of reclamation and power, and whether he knew it at the time or not, he was sharing with me one of the most powerful principles of recovery, the principle of hope.

There aren’t too many days that go by that I’m not reminded of Pastor Thompson and his impact on my life, and some day I’ll see him again.

Detox staff 

Going into a medically-supervised detoxification (“detox”) is quite an event. People don’t casually stroll into a detox unit to check it out. Depending on the substance or substances a person uses, withdrawal is at the very least uncomfortable, and can even be deadly, depending on blood levels, duration of use, tolerance and other factors. If one is lucky, they get some form of treatment, usually inpatient or residential, that immediately follows detox from alcohol or other drugs.

There is a kind of reckoning when one goes to detox, that there has been a level unlocked in the progression of the ingestion of chemicals in which the engaging of medical professionals is required to safely intervene in that ingestion.

In my experience with detox stays (there have been a few), I was always shocked by how they did what they did (and do) for the people they do it for, in the way they do it. Detox just plain sucks, and the people who had to put up with me saw me at my worst. Yet, they were always patient, kind and understanding, all within an often unforgiving process. They didn’t put up with a whole lot of nonsense, but they didn’t give any either, and I am grateful for them.

Inpatient behavioral health staff

Today, psych wards are called by cleaner, more sterile, more user-friendly, non-stigmatizing names like “Behavioral Health Unit” or, “Secured Behavioral Health Center.” For lack of a better description, these are fascinating places in the way that there are people from all walks of life, often making up every demographic in the area, who face a wide range of mental health issues, all captured within one small unit in an otherwise huge hospital. Mental health issues are health issues, and they are more common and more devastating than we’d like to believe.

For many, substance use disorder and mental health issues go together. That was certainly the case for me, and that mix of self-medicating untreated, or undertreated, mental health and substance use issues led me to a few fairly short stays in such a unit, if there is such a thing as a “short” stay there.

Much like the rest of my examples, the people who worked at the units I visited went above and beyond in what was often a chaotic environment, and through their care, expertise and resources, they did a lot to make sure I could be here today.

Naysayers

Naysayers are everywhere.  You’ll find them in your neighborhood, at work, school or social events, and you may even find a few among family and friends. 

I’ve had to deal with the Naysayer within me, and still do, whether the messages have been planted by someone else or are a product of my own experience with setback, past failures and insecurities. 

External Naysayers are different from the people in your circle who are healthy, supportive mentors, friends or peers who challenge you or share a perspective out of care and concern. Naysayers are in the business of dream and purpose limiting, and they enjoy the status quo. There is homeostasis, a balance, that people tend toward, even when that balance is toxic or unhealthy. At different points in my life, I seemed to surround myself with Naysayers, or at the very least, welcomed their presence as some sort of elaborate form of self-sabotage.

Naysayers can certainly hold power over a person, depending on relationship dynamics. They can plant messages that become part of one’s thought cycle, especially if they have some influence in your life. Settle. You can’t. You’ll never. You’ll always. Why can’t you just. You should. In my experience, these are some of the preferred tools of the Naysayer.

But beneath my outwardly calm, fairly quiet, introverted outer shell lurks an equally present non-conforming, pissed-off ten year old. Right or wrong, that kid comes to the surface when I am in contact with a Naysayer. He always has, and I’ve learned that it’s a built in safety feature for me as my journey continues.

I’ve come to terms with the idea of a sort of gratitude and empathy for Naysayers, because they have helped me to maintain a defiance that fuels my recovery from the things that once all but destroyed me.

Those who model recovery

People model recovery, not by telling you , but by showing you. Hell, people who aren’t even “in recovery” from substance use disorder or mental health issues are role models for me, and we’re all in recovery from something. Football and basketball coaches I have been blessed to have worked with and played for over the years, a custodian where I once worked, and an old health teacher of mine have modeled recovery, to name just a few. There are many definitions of “recovery,” and just about every organization has one.  If you’re lacking a role model in an area of your life, I invited you to find one. One would be hard-pressed to swing a stick and not hit a prospective role model. They are out there, they are everywhere, and I am lucky that I’ve had the opportunity to meet some good ones.

Old friends

I used to be hell on wheels. One never knew quite what they were going to get with me. I could be the life of the party. I could also be an out of control shit storm. I was sick, and I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to. How do you tell someone you consistently think about escaping your own life while trying to hide from it all by numbing yourself with chemicals, while also not being able to explain the need to do both?

I was no good for a reasonable relationship of any kind when I was in active addiction, and a lot of good people paid a price for my inability, or unwillingness, to tell those closest to me what I was going through. Instead, they were left to come to probably the only reasonable conclusion they could arrive at: I was trouble.

I pulled people close and pushed them away, often at the same time. What was going on inside me often made its way to the outside, no matter how hard I tried to keep it in, and I worked hard at it. I was often wrapped tightly in the spiraling cycles of addiction and mental health issues that were out of control. As a result, I treated a lot of people like hell while they tried in vain to figure out what was going on and how they could help. It is a testament to the strength and character of those who did the best they could with me, even when I gave them every reason not to.

People gone too soon

I am aware that I have been given more chances than I care to admit sometimes to figure this stuff out. We all know someone who has lost their battle to addiction, mental health issues, or both. Like everyone else, I mourn the loss of those gone way too soon, and with grief travels the wonder of what might have been.

It used to tear me to the brink of rage. I used to get angry about it, and sometimes I still do. The death of one friend led in time to a relapse, which in itself, was completely counterproductive and disrespectful to what our goal was in the first place. Our goal was to recover. Another lesson learned.

I still grieve, but not like I used to. I can’t stop time or be consumed with guilt over what magical, super-human thing I could have done to save someone, and no one else should ever be in that position, either.

I’ve come to terms with loss in the only way I have been able to. I believe I’ll see them again. Until I do, I take their memory with me. That seems to make it easier to keep moving. Do their spirits live on? They do here. Every single day.

Self-help groups

Overly-enthusiastic 12 Step Guy, Sober-for-years-and-still-pissed-at-the-world Guy, God Saves Guy, Treatment Relationship Guy, Newly Sober Expert Guy, Working A Solid Program Guy. At one time or another, I’ve been most of them, and probably still am in one way or another. We are all works in progress, and that’s the often overlooked beauty if it all. To my peers in recovery, thank you for putting up with me. I am here, and I am always going to be.

Mental health and addiction counselors

At one time or another, I despised each and every one of them.

During one of my first rehabs, a little old counselor told me I needed to say, “I am a beautiful, intelligent, worthwhile human being,” in the mirror every morning. I thought he was joking. Turns out he wasn’t. It took me years to say that without sarcasm, but I remember it decades later.

I was fortunate enough to be a part of consistent, safe, supportive, evidence-based programs where I was held accountable and was part of the decision-making process from start to finish over how I was going to go about the business of not dying from the things I was dealing with. Change isn’t about comfort. For me, it was about calling me on my crap, sharing some practical tools, and identifying the strengths I had and how to use them. As time goes on, I realize more and more how lucky I was to have access to those resources.

Over the years, I was blessed with competent, ethical, person-centered counselors who challenged and supported me, even when I didn’t want them to. Most of them used their platform, not as a hierarchical, pathology-based, empowered-helping-the-powerless relationship, but as a partnership where we got to work and straightened up my wreckage together. That is counseling at its best, and I thank them for it. All of it.

Family

I wasn’t raised in a home that was neglectful or abusive in any way. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I was raised in a loving, caring home with an equally loving extended family, neighbors and family friends. Many of the people I have known who deal with addiction and mental health issues weren’t so lucky. There is a connection between abusive or neglectful childhoods and alcohol and drug use in the family, and future mental health and addiction issues, but I didn’t have any of that.

I think the hardest thing for my family was what must have been the overwhelming feeling of helplessness during my dance with addiction and undiagnosed (at that time) mental health issues. They couldn’t love me enough, or cry enough, or worry enough, to help me not destroy myself and everything around me. They didn’t know if they were enabling me or setting boundaries, and I didn’t do much to help them out with it all. They didn’t know if they should yell at me, or hug me, or both. They didn’t know if they should stand back or step forward. They didn’t know if they should tell someone or say nothing. When the phone rang at 2:30 in the morning, they didn’t know if it was one of my drunk friends or if they were going to be notified that I was found in a ditch somewhere. They didn’t know how to deal with their own life issues and health emergencies when their lives were often consumed with waiting for the sky to come crashing down again, as it always seemed to. They didn’t know how to answer questions from neighbors and friends about my name being in the paper for one substance-fueled escapade or another. They didn’t know if they should get help themselves or continue to do what they could to get help for me. This is often what a family experiences when someone struggles with addiction.

Lost trust and shattered dreams aside, every time I asked for help, they were there. A trip to detox in the middle of the night. Driving me to outpatient treatment after I’d lost my license more than once. Visits to one of my several inpatient treatment stays. Financial support, even when they had to cut out other things to make it work. I could go on for days about the ways my family showed up for me, even after all I put them through.

Each time I told them I was going to try again, failed attempt after failed attempt, they supported me. I imagine their enthusiasm and hope may have been a bit beaten up each time something went wrong, but they never lost it, and I don’t know how I would have made it through all of the garbage without them right down there in the mess, sleeves rolled up, ready to go. I would have been gone long ago if it wasn’t for my family.

My circle

I have been given the gift of some longevity in the realm of addiction, mental health issues and recovery. The people in my life today help feed the fire of recovery. They see possibilities instead of roadblocks. They offer their insight and experience, rather than judgment. The people in my life contribute to what others helped start, and I try, sometimes failing miserably, to share that with others. We often make the mistake of believing we are somehow finished works, or that we have to do it on our own. That doesn’t fly with the people in my life today. We are all works in progress, and I am grateful I have people who are supportive of, and hold me accountable to, that work.

So, in the end, I am no where near self-made, despite the fleeting delusions I sometimes have. I am certainly in charge of my recovery today, but a lot of people helped make that possible, as unlikely as it may have seemed back then.

For all the things people have done and continue to do for me and others in recovery, and for those who help people get to recovery, you have my undying appreciation and respect. I’ll finish what we started together, I’ll take care of it, and I’ll keep working at it. Thank you for giving me that chance.

If you or someone you know needs help with substance use disorder or mental health issues, reach out. Google resources in your area. Call your county department of human services. Use the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services (SAMHSA) Treatment Locator online. Contact someone you know who is in recovery. Resources are there, and you don’t have to go through it alone.

In memory of those who lost their battles while waiting for help to come.

Mornings with my Demons and Aaron Beck

Many Second Chances Mental Wellness , ,
Good morning, demons…

It usually begins an instant after the generic alarm on my phone signals the dawn of a new day, and I am rarely disappointed.

“This is stupid. I hate this,” comes a grumble from one corner, scratchy and raw due to the excessive yelling from the day before. “Turn that damn thing off.”

“I am not equipped for this,” a whisper comes from another corner, still covered in darkness.

From yet another corner, “Well, this is just super.  There’s nothing more breathtaking than the beginning of another wildly mediocre day in this freak show.”

Here they come.  Anger, Fear, Resentment, AND…

“Act normal.  It’s really not a problem.”

…Denial. 

“Just don’t encourage them.  No one has to know.  No one will ever understand,” says a stern voice, as morning overcomes the night.

Time to start another day, I think to myself and smile as I turn off the alarm and get out of bed.

It hasn’t always been this way.  I mean, it hasn’t always been the case that I could begin a morning this way and smile.  In fact, anxiety, depression and addiction were fueled for years by the unrelenting onslaught of negative thoughts in my head, while the issues I had were, in turn, fueled by my constant, toxic supply of negative thoughts.

The idea of the critical inner voice isn’t a new one.  A quick Google search will show results for articles and papers that suggest that we can have anywhere from 12,000 to 60,000 thoughts per day, and anywhere from 60 to 80 percent of those thoughts can be negative.  According to research, the overwhelming majority of those negative thoughts are usually the same negative thoughts we had yesterday, and the day before.  There is also the popular belief that negative self-talk or critical inner voice, or monologue, has increased sharply in recent years, in large part due to the cumulative effects of the pandemic, social and political division, and the abundance of (and easy access to) critical material on social media. 

That seems to make sense. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to be exposed to negative people, places or things for any length of time without absorbing at least some of that negativity.  Complicating matters internally, new negative messages are combined with existing material to create a larger sample for the brain to cycle through, apparently over and over again.

So, why smile?  After years of research, trial and error, wounds and scars, a little bit of hard work and some luck, here are five reasons I’ve learned to welcome my critical inner voice each morning with a smile.

CBT.  Dr. Aaron Beck is known as the father of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). Broken down into terms simple enough so I can use them, CBT focuses on the idea that thoughts influence feelings, feelings influence beliefs, and beliefs influence behavior.  The way we perceive or think about something influences how we feel about it.  A simple way of using CBT is to be aware of negative or distressing thoughts and examine how accurate or realistic they are.  Identify and evaluate the thought “distortion,” or, if you like, the validity of the thought, in order to think more realistically, which can positively influence the emotion attached to that thought or perception.  There is a lot of great, easy to use information on CBT and Dr. Beck on the internet, if you’re interested.

Resilience.  I’ve been blessed with the gift of longevity, considering the path I’ve travelled. I’ve been given many years and many opportunities to finally arrive at a point where I’ve developed and practiced my own battle plan, and I’m grateful that I get to work on it each day.  Lots of people with similar mental health and addiction issues aren’t given the chances I have been given, and I never forget that. Bouncing back from some adversity or a setback becomes a little easier when I look through that lens. Good day, bad day, whatever.  I’ll be back, and I’ll get to work.

Defiance.  Wait a minute, defiance is a bad thing, right?  Remember the four critics we met at the beginning of this post?  Their goal is to win. Mine has to be, too. I understand what the stakes are in my walk through life with these guys, and I will use any weapon at my disposal.  Mr. Webster defines defiance as “open resistance; bold disobedience,” and I can’t think of a better stance to take against them.  For years, I “struggled with” or “suffered from,” and in some circles, I was even considered to be some sort of “victim of” addiction and mental health issues. 

Defiance has helped to usher in a new perspective, and with that, a change in the way I approach the same old, chronic issues in my life.  I do not struggle with them today.  Likewise, I respect what they can do, but I do not fear them. I do not suffer from anything, and I’m not a victim.  I don’t sit around waiting to defend the castle, wondering what or who will appear on the horizon or attack under the cover of darkness.  I used to.  Today, I go looking for them, and I let them know they should pack a lunch.  I don’t accept their demands, and I do not bow down to them.  Besides, as a depressive, anxiety-prone, recovering addict with rampant ADD, resistance and disobedience have always kind of been second nature, anyway.  With a different perspective, I am able to use familiar weapons in different ways.  Always go with your best pitch.

Gratitude.  It’s probably not what you were expecting after defiance, I suppose.  The funny thing about gratitude is, it’s so easy to carry.  Entitlement gets to be so heavy, and there really isn’t a good way to carry it.  It’s just not a good look.  I kept hearing about gratitude through treatments and rehabs and counseling and all that.  Can’t you just be grateful? 

I always thought that gratitude was somehow for other people, people who didn’t have to carry the stuff  I was carrying.  I often felt empty inside, aside from the never-ending, always loud, everyone-yapping-at-the-same-time, critical, negative, destructive messages in my head.  I didn’t think I had room for gratitude.  I didn’t know where to put it, and I didn’t know how to start, until one day, I just tried it.  I think it went something like this: This is bullshit, but it’s not completely bullshit.  Okay, it’s mostly bullshit.  But, within the piles of bullshit, there is undoubtedly some good stuff.  One teeny, tiny little thing. That one thing is what I will be grateful for today. 

Even in dark times, there is something to be grateful for.  For me, the key has always been that I need to be in the position to be willing, and on days where I’m not willing, I am at least in the position to be willing to be willing.  I am a work in progress. There are still days like that, days where I think I am owed something or I should be further along than I am, or where I get hung up on comparing myself or parts of me to other parts of other things (one of the many places CBT comes in handy).

It’s still the same old crap I’ve been fighting for ages, but I am more in tune with the gratitude side of life today. I don’t have to fight this crap, I get to fight this crap, and I’m grateful for another day to be able to do it. 

Some days I even get out of bed excited about it, right from the start, like a kid staring through the window of a candy store.  I have so many things to be grateful for that it’s kind of embarrassing that I didn’t come around sooner.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, as they say.

“What are you so excited about on a Tuesday morning?”  I’m going to chase down my demons and rub their noses in it today!  Honey, should I wear my plaid shirt or would the striped one be more awesome for demon terrorizing?

Hope.  In my experience, hope is where it all starts.  It has to. All I needed was a spark, and that’s all I got.  There were no angels singing while the gates of heaven opened up.  There was no choir, no cheering from spectators, nothing. It was one spark, and it saved my life.

At one point in my life, I was within roughly 30 minutes, give or take, of completing an action that would have been irreversible.  It would have been final, and at the time, it seemed completely logical.  All the evidence at that moment, distorted as it may have been, clearly showed that it would have been a reasonable, rational thing to do. 

For me, hope came in the form of a “What If?” in the face of all the evidence against it. And that was that.  Quick.  Quiet.  I almost didn’t even notice it.  I’m forever grateful that I noticed hope that day.  Since then, I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes that I wouldn’t have had otherwise, and I’m grateful that I get the opportunity to do it again each day.  With that one little spark, some nineteen years later, hope has become the foundation of whatever it is that I am today. 

If you’re kind of iffy on whether or not Hope is beneficial, Google something like, “What does science say about the power of hope?”  You may just be surprised.

I’m no expert on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.  I’m no self-improvement guru.  I’m not a mental health expert.  I’m not even an expert on myself, but I keep learning.  Maybe some of this stuff isn’t for you.  Maybe none of it is.  But, if you, or someone you know deals with mental health issues or addiction, my hope is that you find that spark today. If you’re struggling, reach out. If you’re able, be the person others reach out to. You’re worth it, you’re loved, and you matter. We need you. We’re all in this together.

Old Friends, Survivor’s Guilt and Surviving

Many Second Chances Addiction, mental health, Recovery, Short story , , , , ,

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I grabbed the jersey display case from its perch on the bookcase in the den. I tucked it under my arm as I walked through the house and out the door. When I got to the middle of the driveway, I took it in both hands, raised it above my head and threw it down at my feet as hard as I could throw it. Glass exploded and flew in every direction as the crash echoed through the neighborhood. Perfectly fabricated wood joints shattered and seemed to chase the glass. As the echoing subsided, the pieces came to rest in different parts of the driveway, while the jersey laid crumpled at my feet. I stood in the driveway in the middle of it all with my hands on my hips, cursing the wreckage, fuming over the death of a friend a year and a half earlier. And I felt enraged by what I saw as the absolute futility of life. I called out God, Higher Powers and every other spirit I’d ever heard of for their collective inaction. I cursed the Universe. I begged them all for a sign or a signal, and I dared them all to give me their best shot. Oddly enough, the fact that there was no response from anywhere in the living world nor the world beyond only served to fuel the rage that had finally come out. “F*** YOU,” I said, pointing down at the mess at my feet, “AND F*** YOU, TOO,” I said, raising my arms to notify the rest of the world. It was at that moment that I had, in fact, had it.

This was the culmination of over a year and a half of seething, festering guilt and frustration, over acting “as-if” and of playing the part. It was pretending to make temporary sense of a permanent loss. I tried to act as if, I tried to go along and get along. I tried to pretend all was well and that what I was really feeling was sadness, and it was a natural part of the process of grief, especially when someone young dies unexpectedly. But the truth was that I wasn’t sad. I was sick of getting along, and I was tired of acting as if. I was angry because Dave’s passing devasted his family. I saw the faces of his old friends and neighbors at the funeral. I was angry because I remember calling Jimmy to give him the news, and I remember his reaction. I was angry because the three of us finally had stuff figured out, together, and now it was gone. I was angry because he had his whole life ahead of him. I was angry because he didn’t reach out and I was angry because I didn’t do enough to stop it. I was angry because the three of us had come so far. And that day, in one feeble, violent, misguided moment, I took it out on a carefully crafted display case which held an old jersey in memory of my friend. Now that was ruined, too.

To know Jimmy and Dave was to know life itself. They both had tons of friends growing up, they were charismatic, they were popular and they were each blessed with a great sense of humor. They were both talented athletes. Jimmy was built like a linebacker, a position he played with an enviable efficiency. He had a square jaw and a smile that could make you feel both at ease and yet still wonder what he had just gotten away with. Dave was a quick, smaller bundle of energy, an energy that you could actually feel. He and I had our lockers next door throughout school because of our last names. He had an infectious laugh and was a walking, talking social event. His family owned the bakery in town and I will never forget the beautiful sights, smells and tastes we were blessed with on a regular basis from that magical little place. The two of them were a memorable part of the cast of characters in our small hometown.

We were always teammates and classmates, although it seems that the three of us were never really all that close back then. After graduation, and the school years which contained both highlights and scrapes with authority, along with the prerequisite growing pains, we each went our own directions out into the world. One of us would enter and exit the military, one of us would scale water towers, and one of us would fail miserably at two colleges, before reuniting in our small town, to begin rebuilding our lives.

********

I literally ran into Jimmy not quite ten years later at the bank in town. I was begrudgingly going to the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in the basement that night at the urging of my family, when I swung open the door and ran into my old friend, who was on his way to his car. Jimmy had been in recovery for a year and had a good job with a big construction outfit in the area. We spent some time after the meeting catching up and after some convincing, I agreed to go to meetings regularly. He became my mentor and my babysitter. The drinking hobbies we began in high school as “boys will be boys” -type behavior had become full blown addictions in almost no time, only to somehow lead us back home to try to sort it all out. After the reunion that night, we were pretty much inseparable, and it seemed we had almost come full circle.

A few months after our meeting in the doorway of the bank in town, Jimmy and I received word that Dave was back in the area, too. He had run into some trouble, and we went to visit him to see how we could help. Then there were three.

We began working on clearing the wreckage of the past and getting busy with the work of getting our lives back a little at a time. We were sober, clean, recovering and kicking all kinds of ass at it. Meetings, conferences, more meetings, making amends, helping others, sharing our stories at schools in the area. We even returned to the church we had spent so much time in growing up, which we thought to be kind of poetic. We talked about the glory days of football and basketball. We talked about college and owning businesses and houses and whatever else came to mind. We had dreams again and we weren’t shackled to our addictions, waiting to die. We were alive. We held each other up, we held each other accountable and we walked through it all together. You didn’t miss a meeting or someone would be there, banging on your door. You answered your phone even if you were busy or didn’t feel like it, because it was what you were supposed to do when someone reached out. If one of us had a court date, we all had a court date. We high-fived and trashed talked each other. We were at once humbled by what we had survived and confident and proud of our new lease on life. We were, in so many ways, back.

********

But as time wore on in our new lives, maybe we started to become complacent. Maybe we took some things for granted. Maybe there were some underlying things we didn’t or couldn’t fix within us or between us. I’ve never been completely sure, and that’s always been part of my problem with the whole thing. Maybe the high fives weren’t shared as often. Maybe the conferences, meetings and speaking opportunities became easier to brush off in favor of new things. Or old things. Maybe we stopped being grateful. Maybe we stopped telling each other the truth. But in the middle of it all, we had lost our way, and I didn’t know exactly how much until we couldn’t get ahold of Dave.

Jimmy didn’t seem too bothered by not being able to get in touch with Dave, at first. There were all kinds of possible reasons, and they didn’t have to be bad ones, he thought. I was frustrated, but in the end, we both figured he’d come around. There had been a few things that had happened recently that may have accounted for it. Maybe he got a job. Maybe he was pissed at us. Maybe he was burnt out on recovery and the pace at which we were going. We decided, fatefully, to give him space. For two weeks we went on with life – work, meetings, family- waiting for him to come back to the fold.

********

The alarm went off that Friday just like it did every other morning, the beep-beep-beep pulling me out of slumber to be replaced by a clicking sound and the local radio news morning update. I sat up in the dark, eyes still shut, when I heard, “A one car crash over night leaves…. County Road A….David…..”

I rubbed my eyes and yawned and I had to rewind and play again in my head what I thought I had just heard. Confused and still half awake, I grabbed the radio and tried to tune in other stations on the chance that I might hear it again, but I got nothing. Turning the radio off, I called work and told them that I wouldn’t be in, that a friend had been in an accident. I dressed on the way to the door and put my shoes on as I hopped down the sidewalk toward the car. It can’t be, I thought.

I drove and thought. Thought and drove. My mind raced and feared the worst, and then a wave of reassurance due to being half asleep and the belief that I simply had not heard it correctly. But I still felt I had to drive down there and check. It couldn’t be. The farther I drove and the closer I was to the approaching town, the better I felt. Stupid dream.

Then, rounding the last curve in the road on County A, the last corner before town, I saw the tire tracks. I saw the car. I saw the police cars. I saw the tape. I saw the tow truck parked off to the side. I pulled over and got out. I leaned up against the car with my arms folded. I didn’t know what else to do. After some time, an older deputy approached me. We talked for a few minutes about what details he could give, he shared his condolences and went back to work. It was surreal. It was bullshit. It was over. On the way back to town, I wondered what his family must have been going through at that moment. I wondered how they were ever going to make it through the loss of a son and brother. I wondered how Jimmy would take it, and I wondered how I was going to tell him. And I wondered why. Then there were two.

********

We were never the same after Dave’s passing. Jimmy couldn’t even bring himself to go to the funeral and I went mostly because I couldn’t bring myself to not go. We talked a lot, Jimmy and I, but it was never the real, teammate, crunch-time, got-your-back, kind of stuff that we had grown accustomed to. There was no banging on the door if one of us missed a meeting. There was no car in the driveway if we didn’t answer the phone. Little by little, Dave’s passing, and our assumed responsibility for not preventing it, slowly pulled us into the swamp of relapse. Eventually we just stopped calling and contacting each other because we each believed we were a little more at fault than the other for what had happened somehow. We carried the burden as quietly as we could for as long as we could.

While I don’t believe Jimmy ever touched another drink, I know that he fought demons that rarely let him rest. For my part, I stayed clean for another eight or nine months before I went back to using, and only a few months after that came the day I spiked the case on the driveway and challenged the world to a fist fight.

********

It was twelve years after Dave passed, that I learned Jimmy had died suddenly. That was in 2006. Over that twelve-year span, I had to work to recover from addiction and fight mental health issues, and to deal with the memory hoarder’s paradise that is survivor’s guilt. Counselors, therapists, other addicts, family, friends, enemies -you name it- I had help. It wasn’t an exercise in valor or the yearning for a higher level of existence, it was an exercise in survival. And then there was one.

It was during the time of my Dad’s passing, in between Dave’s and Jimmy’s, that a pastor put a hand on my shoulder and suggested that maybe the best we can do is take them with us on our journey until we meet again. I’ve never forgotten that, and that little act of kindness and empathy forged a gigantic shift in my view and perspective on the finite of life, and the infinite universe, but that’s a story for another time.

That shift, that little spark, was part of a lengthy process moving from fixating on something I could never change and riding it to hell and back, to coming to the belief that there is a different way. Who wins a war with the Universe? Who calls out spirits and challenges a God or gods he isn’t even sure he believes are real? Who seeks closure through rage? I did, and it didn’t work. When you get your ass kicked that badly, sometimes it’s best to accept it and regroup. There is no science to it, and it may not even make sense. All I know is that it seems to work day to day, and I am not imprisoned by guilt anymore about something I could never control in the first place.

********

Today, I am where I am in no small part because of Dave and Jimmy. And although I don’t carry the baggage I used to, I love them like brothers. I am grateful for the time we got to spend together, even in the eye of the storm. There is no doubt that they helped people achieve lasting recovery while they were here, and I owe it to them to keep walking, come what may. Without our paths crossing back then, I’m sure there would have been an early end to my own story.

Today, I use the suggestion I received and I take them with me, and we get to do the things said we would. After I’d been in recovery for quite a few years, I went back and finished school and earned a counseling degree. Behind the curtain that graduation night, I met with Dave and Jimmy. We made it, gentlemen. Each time I reach another year in recovery from addiction, I call on them. We made It, Fellas. Before playing football for the first time in twenty-one years, I walked over to the corner of the end zone during pregame and met with Dave, Jimmy and Dad. We made it, gentlemen. When our granddaughters were born, I made it, Guys… When it’s quiet and there is that fleeting moment of clarity and peace, however brief, that we once worked together for…. We made it, gentlemen.

And it isn’t just them. Others who have passed, I’ve learned to take along the best I can. That is something I carry without fatigue. I am still part of this world, don’t get me wrong. But I am grateful today to be able to do it until we meet again, however and wherever that is. That is of course, if God or the spirits don’t hold grudges and if the Universe isn’t sore for my tantrum in the driveway all those years ago.

We made it, gentlemen.

In memory of

Dave Mickelson

and

Jim Torpen

Old Coaches, Depression and Warrior Mentality

Many Second Chances mental health, Recovery, Short story , , , ,

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It was during the fifth day of my third inpatient treatment, fresh off a four day detox, when my newly appointed counselor looked up from her assessment notes, and asked,  “Have you ever been diagnosed with depression?”

We had been sitting in her office for what seemed like days. She asked me questions about everything from my friends and family to my drug of choice to thoughts and feelings.  I didn’t really give much thought to the answers until she asked the one about depression.  Up until then I had never been screened or diagnosed with anything.  I was in a treatment facility for alcohol and drug addiction after all, and not for depression.  I had no idea at that time that depression was real and that addiction and depression could be related.

The only time I’d ever seen a psychologist or psychiatrist up until that time was after I wound up in my first detox stay and weekend hold, and that was only to assess whether or not I was a danger to myself.  The night I ended up in that detox, I had been out with some friends one evening and, as was the norm, I drank too much.  What wasn’t the norm -at least at that time- was that during a blackout I threatened people’s lives (including my own), and I was apparently unhinged enough that my Dad had to hold me face down in the yard, after one of the times I fell, until the policeman in town and the ambulance arrived.  I still remember, many years later, Mom crying and Dad apologizing to me as he held me down to protect me from myself.  It turns out that a blood alcohol level four times the legal limit agreed neither with my mind nor my body, and it didn’t do much for the people around me, either.

Back to my counselor and the assessment.  In hindsight, that question, and her insight and willingness to ask after it had been missed in previous interventions, probably did a lot to save my life.  She connected me with a doctor in the area who had a lot of experience with patients with co-occurring disorders, patients with two different issues going on at the same time.  In my case they were addiction (substance use disorder) and a suspected depression.  The result of our meeting was that I was diagnosed with clinical depression, and I learned as we continued to meet that it is something that I had lived with as far back into my childhood as I could remember.

 

When I was diagnosed with depression, I felt two completely different emotions at once, or within  seconds.  When the doctor described the diagnosis and some of the symptoms and how they may explain some of the deep, dark things I was going through at that time, I felt an enormous amount of relief.  There was a name for it.  It was something I didn’t have to (if I so chose) hide anymore.  There was help.  There was treatment.  There was hope.  Then, an instant later, a feeling of dread washed in like a wave on a beach, ruining the neat little sand castle of hope that my mind had built on the shore during that few seconds of relief.  Dread, of course, due to the realization that now not only would I have to fight a drug and alcohol addiction that was raising hell in every facet of my life, while I seemed almost eager to aid in the destruction any way I could, there was another enemy to fight in depression.  However, what I learned over time was that the dread was unnecessary.  It wasn’t really a new opponent.  It was a new label.  I used to describe it with words like “empty” or “dark.”  From that point on, it just had a new name.

All this happened many years ago now, around the time of the big antidepressant boom of the late 1980s and early 1990s, and over the years I was prescribed everything under the sun which was thought to ease depression, rewire the brain or to help balance brain chemicals, with varying success.  Back then, antidepressant medications were everywhere and were thought to be real life savers for people with mental health issues, issues that up until that time were often not spoken about, even between family members, close friends or spouses.  Depression, anxiety and the like were often seen as weaknesses, and they could be fixed much like addiction, with new routines, added diligence and more will power.  There was a long-standing stigma to mental health issues, and sadly, some of that still exists.

That day in treatment was many years ago now, and although it marked a turning point for me in my battle with addiction and depression, I wasn’t able to achieve long-term recovery from alcohol and drugs for some time after this.  At that time, I counted it a failure, my not staying clean after that treatment experience.  But I’ve learned in the almost 18 years of recovery since that it wasn’t a failure, and I didn’t lose the war.  I lost a battle.  There is a huge difference.

There is a question often posed in treatment and recovery circles, and for people with co-occurring disorders, about which disorder came first, a chicken or egg thing, I guess.  Some people claim their depressive disorder or anxiety disorders are brought on by addiction.  Some say trauma makes one or both likely, in either order.  In my case it is clear cut.  I’ve never wondered about it.  Depression, the “empty,” was a tenant in my head long before addiction was, but they seemed to feed off each other once I found alcohol and then drugs.  I look back at some of the people who were unfortunate enough to be in my life at that time, and I wonder, among other things, how some of them didn’t lose their sense of reality in what must have been a heavy storm for them, or lash out at me in fear or frustration, which they did not. In the end people in my life at that time had two choices: they could stay and eventually become pulled into the ongoing chaos, or they could save themselves and leave.  Sometimes I left because even early on, the alcohol and drug use had become a full time job, which didn’t leave much room for anything else.  I was continually trying to kill the depression and fill the empty with chemicals, and I did it until I couldn’t do it anymore, but that’s another story for another time.

“The opposite of depression isn’t happiness, but  vitality.”   -Andrew Solomon

Today, I still battle depression and it is all a part of daily recovery.  It hasn’t gone away, and I don’t kid myself thinking that it ever will.  There are days when I am pretty sure I can take on the world and come out of it okay, while there are still days that are quite the opposite.  There are days when I cope well and there are days when I act like a pissed off four year old in the midst of a sugar crash.  I’ve seen people tougher than me die from addiction and depression, and I’ve seen people overcome odds that seem impossible.

I have been fortunate enough to have been able to adopt and adapt my mindset as my journey continues, and I learn from a lot of inspiring, motivating people who battle their opponents daily.  Even words, terms and my perspectives on things have changed along the way.  Words have meaning, and I don’t share the following to upset anyone else on their journey with addiction recovery or mental health recovery.  I share it because it is important to me, and it has been important in my recovery from both.  Earlier I said I battle depression, and that is what I mean. I used to struggle with addiction.  I used to suffer from depression.  Today, I battle it, and that simple change in terms and perspective has been invaluable in the way I approach recovery.  I don’t suffer from it.  I don’t struggle with it.  I don’t bow down to it.  I don’t use it as a crutch.  I battle it, and I prepare, not as a victim or prisoner, but as a warrior.

 

When I was growing up, my classmates and I had the privilege of playing different sports at a small school for three coaches who would later end up in their respective coaching halls of fame.  Each of the three had vastly different coaching styles, huge knowledge bases and experience, and unique ways of communicating their knowledge and developing skill.   There was also the belief that we were never out of a game, no matter the score, if there was still time left on the clock.  I recall arriving at film studies and chalk talks and being met at the door with scouting reports that were so thorough and film that was so dissected that we knew more about the teams we were going to play than they knew about themselves.  Although I have borrowed a lot from their teachings and applied them to my life over the years, the one thing that stands out above all else was their preparation and attention to detail, and they were masters at both.

Perspective and preparation have gone hand in hand in my battle with depression and journey through recovery. As someone who suffered or struggled, I spent a lot of time reacting, playing defense, and waiting for my opponent’s next attack.  I was always tired, and it seemed I could never really plan or enjoy anything because I could never really be sure when the next wave would hit, and I didn’t do a good job preparing for it either way.  That isn’t to say that thinking about an obstacle differently somehow changes the obstacle.  In my experience, it doesn’t.  It changes me.

Today I have a scouting report on my opponent and I use it.  Today I better understand my skills and abilities as they pertain to battling depression and continuing the journey of recovery.  I have family and friends, I have hope and the gift of today.  I can share my experience in hopes of helping others, when for years I kept it all hidden.  Adopting a kind of warrior mentality and having the mindset that my opponent is beatable has truly made all the difference.

 

 

On Pep Talks and Beating Goliath

Many Second Chances Addiction, Recovery, Substance Abuse , , , , , ,

Several years ago, as I was nearing the end of a substance abuse counseling internship, I was asked to deliver a graduation message at the correctional treatment facility where I had been working. The message would be a small part of the ceremony for a group of inmates I had had the privilege of working with who had successfully completed the treatment program there and were nearing release. I got to spend a lot of time with the men in the program and I learned a lot about not only their offenses, their sentences and their addictions, but about them as people- their hobbies, their families, and sometimes their hopes and dreams. They were all very different people in age, class, profession and ideology. Most of the time it seemed that the only thing they had in common, really, was that they all new their release dates and they were all dealing with the consequences brought by their addictions.

By the day of the graduation I felt confident that I had put together a half way decent message. As the ceremony began, the large commons room was filled with different staff members of the prison, invited guests and family members from the outside, and the graduating men. A few minutes before I was to speak, I snuck one last peak down at my cards to make sure I had them all, and had them all in order, when a staff member sat down beside me. This staff member had been at the prison for many years and, from everything I had seen up to that point, was everything one could imagine in someone who provides addiction treatment. "Don't waste your time on a pep talk, it won't do any good." Then, just as quickly and quietly as they had sat down, they were gone.

Webster's Dictionary says that a pep talk is, "a usually brief, intense, and emotional talk designed to influence or encourage an audience."

I remember that to this day, and I often think about how it pertains, in the way of pep talks or outside motivation, to me and my own recovery journey. And why some people give up, when others don't. No matter the reason for the statement -whether brought on by frustration, bias, fatigue, hostility, or any other reason- I realized it said much more about the professional in that instant than it did any of the offenders. Truth be told, it gave me a resolve that I have hung on to since then that I would counterbalance that attitude in the universe by never betting against the possibility of recovery, no matter what the odds seem to be. Because if you've been around addiction and recovery long enough, you know that David can beat Goliath.

Back to that day. I remember most of it vividly. It was quite an event, complete with a powerful Native American drum ceremony, words of congratulations and celebration, gratitude and excitement, held together with reminders about vigilance and caution. My little talk? I don't think it qualified as much of a pep talk, and to be honest, it is one of the things I remember least about the whole day. What I do remember is the people. I remember people who were thrown together in what wasn't a beach-side. five-star resort-type rehab, to work on their problems, to pay their debts and to try to change their lives and to help those who were in the same predicament. A common goal. I sometimes wonder about those graduates and how their lives have turned out in the years that have come and gone since then. I wonder if they are still in recovery despite the obstacles many of them faced, and I am always hopeful that they are able to accept and enjoy and share the gifts that come with recovery from addiction.

In the end, we don’t need to be Vince Lombardi or Bear Bryant or Pat Summitt or John Wooden to make an impact. I guess we just need to be whatever it is that we are. When we show others we believe in them and we are pulling for them, often just by showing up, especially after they’ve fallen or are in a tough spot, we can spark hope. And hope is the foundation of not only recovery, but in the conquering of all things once thought impossible.

5 Things I’ve Learned About Addiction

Many Second Chances Addiction, Recovery, Substance Abuse , , , ,

I have been in the addiction and recovery arena in one way or another for almost 30 years.  About half of that time was spent battling addiction personally, in and out of treatment centers and detoxes, with fleeting stints of sobriety. The other roughly half of that time has been in continuous, sustained recovery.  During my time in recovery, I’ve been able to see things from the eyes of someone who struggles with addiction, someone who has his own recovery path and someone who has spent time as a substance abuse counselor.  My attitudes and biases have naturally changed as I have grown and gained knowledge, which seems to be a requirement if one is to defeat an enemy who is constantly at the gate.  Here are five things I have learned about addiction.

ADDICTION IS ONE OF THE MOST MISUNDERSTOOD ILLNESSES ON THE PLANET. There is an old saying that has to do with alcoholics being around since man first learned to crush grapes.  If you believe that as I do, that covers many centuries. In more recent times, Alcoholics Anonymous was founded somewhere around 1935, and the American Medical Association declared alcohol addiction an illness 1956.  If my math is right, that is 85 years and 64 years ago, respectively.  One would think that with all of the technological, scientific and sociological advances made during that time, we would have a better handle on the symptoms, causes, treatments and recovery paths for something so destructive.  And we would have a better view of the illness as an illness, and not a punch line, a head shake or an opportunity for horrible advice.
Yet, addiction is still widely misunderstood, even in 2020.  Doctors prescribe treatment they believe will help, yet medical professionals have over prescribed opiates to the point of being one of the catalysts to an epidemic.  The War on Drugs has gone on for over 45 years and has cost well over a trillion dollars, with really no meaningful, positive change.  In fact, the War On Drugs has been called an abject failure, but that is another post for another day. I promise.
Family members, friends and coworkers close to someone with a substance use disorder are often heard saying, “I wish they’d just quit this nonsense,” or “If they would just stick to beer.”  Movies portray addicts in ways that seem to exaggerate the symptoms to make a point.  Even the news media is involved.  It is not uncommon (in my area is it very common) for the local news to report on a burglary, high speed chase, standoff, or some other crime where charges result in, among other things, possession of heroin, methamphetamine and/or THC. These are just a few examples, and I’m not picking on anyone.

In modern society, we fix things with pills, when often pills are what get us into trouble in the first place.  (Don’t believe me?  Two words: television commercials.)  Family members, friends and coworkers also mean well, and often travel to the ends of the earth, and to the edge of sanity and well passed exhaustion, to help.  But, despite the best efforts of everyone involved, sometimes we contribute to the muddying of the waters and don’t do well to separate the myth from the truth concerning addiction, treatment and recovery.
All too often, if something is said enough times, if we see it in the news or on social media enough, even if it is completely wrong, it somehow becomes truth (see: politics). Stigma is a huge issue that perpetuates the myths concerning addiction.  Underfunding by our national, state and local governments is another barrier in the understanding of addiction, the reduction of stigma and the availability of treatment for those who struggle.  We can do better.

ADDICTION COSTS A LOT.  According to the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA), substance abuse in the U.S. to alcohol and drugs costs over $520 billion annually. Let me say that again. FIVE HUNDRED-TWENTY BILLION DOLLARS per year.  The Institute includes crime, lost work productivity and healthcare costs in its numbers, while the healthcare numbers alone are $27 billion for alcohol and roughly $11 billion for illicit (illegal) drugs and $26 billion for prescription opiates.  (The cost concerning opiates will surely go up as new data is processed and becomes available.)  To put that into perspective, the cost of the effects of tobacco use and addiction in the U.S. costs roughly $300 billion a year, with over half of that ($168 billion) being healthcare costs.  Not only is addiction and its consequences costly for the person who struggles and for those close to that person, it is also a huge drain on our economy. Imagine if we spent anywhere near that on education, intervention and treatment accessibility and availability. And what if we spent money to develop prevention programs that work?

ADDICTION IS NOT A CHOICE.  I grew up in a small town in a neat neighborhood. My sister and I had lots of friends within a few blocks and the neighborhood was always alive with activity. Some of us wanted to be doctors when we grew up. Others wanted to be cowboys. Princesses. Astronauts. Dirt bike riders. Mechanics. Nurses.  Sometimes our future career choices depended on the popular TV shows or movies of the day. At the risk of dating myself, I’ll stay clear of listing those here.  But, of all the kids in my the neighborhood where I grew up, not once did anyone ever say they wanted to grow up to be an addict.
Addiction is a primary, progressive illness. It can travel alone or, as it often does, it can occur with other conditions like depression, anxiety disorder and so on.  It’s also impossible to predict with certainty who will become addicted to alcohol or other drugs or when it might occur. But there are some risk factors including genetics, age of onset (use), a preceding mental illness and trauma.
People make the choice to abuse, that is, to use a substance to gain a desired affect. People choose to binge drink. People choose to take pills or take a various array of other chemicals in many ways to gain or lose something in their lives, even temporarily, and I’m sure you’ve heard some of these reasons. To lose boredom. To gain excitement. To gain energy. To lose sadness. To lose stress. To gain camaraderie. To gain concentration. To lose weight. We could go on and on. But people choose, whether it is drinking to access, or to double a prescription dose, or to smoke, sniff or inject a substance. Obviously, we all make choices, and sometimes those choices have far reaching consequences. However, to make the connection that since one chooses to abuse, one then also chooses addiction, is irresponsible and really lazy. We choose to abuse. But we don’t choose to become addicts.

ADDICTION IS TERMINAL IF LEFT UNTREATED.  The American Medical Association classifies addiction as a disease and follows a disease model, much the way it classifies diabetes, heart disease and cancer.  The AMA also says that causes are sometimes determined by biological, environmental and behavioral factors. There is much debate about addiction as a disease or an illness, and a quick Google search can open up all sorts of thoughts and ideas on what addiction is to different people and organizations.  Here is where I usually ask people to do all the research they can. Ask questions, reach out. Find credible sources. Think critically.
This July will mark 18 years of continuous long term recovery from alcohol and drugs for me, but I believe truly and completely that I am only in remission.  One drink or drug will surely activate my illness.  You may ask how I know that. I gained valuable yet costly, first-hand experience on relapse personally before I gained long term recovery, and I’ve watched countless others do the same.
NIDA defines addiction as, “a chronic, relapsing brain disease that is characterized by compulsive drug seeking and use, despite harmful consequences.”
There are other definitions that echo this idea, some are quite long and more in depth.  For simplicity’s sake, I like to use this definition, and it describes my own addiction, and the addictions of the countless others I have met over the years, perfectly: “Addiction is chronic, and as such will get worse and never better over time if left untreated.”
According to the National Institutes of Health, approximately 88,000 people in the U.S. die each year from alcohol-related causes.  The CDC estimated that in 2017, there were over 72,000 opiate overdose deaths, which included both prescription and illicit drugs. To put that number in some sort of perspective, that was 197 people per day, every day, in 2017, from opiates alone.

ADDICTION IS BEATABLE.  Now that we have all that other stuff out of the way, we can get to the good stuff. Addiction is treatable, it is beatable, and you or someone you love can get their lives back. There are millions of people around the world who celebrate long term recovery. For all the data involving the negative aspects of addiction, there is also data on recovery. There are many pathways to recovery, and each path is as unique as the individual who makes the journey, and there have never been more pathways to recovery than in years past.  Recovery from addiction is possible, and there are millions of us who are proof of that, and there is plenty of room for millions more.
One of the most basic keys to recovery is that it is self-directed, meaning that the person recovering is in charge of determining the path he or she will follow.  Of course, there is much help out there to help guide along the path, or even to help one make the decision of which path to follow. The intervention someone who struggles with a substance use disorder receives, meaning the interruption of behavior, whether family, law enforcement contact, medical, or self-directed, can come in many forms.  Whatever form that intervention comes in, considering consequences, can be the foundation for an effective plan for recovery.
This is certainly not an unabridged, comprehensive reference guide on addiction. These are merely a few things I have learned along the way. There are many resources available online to learn more about addiction treatment, recovery groups, detoxification when needed, and often a medical professional can assist in finding the best option and level of care

5 Things I’ve Learned About Relapse

Many Second Chances Addiction, Recovery, Substance Abuse , , , , ,

You or someone you know had a few weeks or months, or even years of recovery. Things appeared to be going well. Lives were getting back in order. The past was becoming just that. Things were good, or better than good. Then it came seemingly out of nowhere. Relapse. The hope, the ability to breathe easy -the overall feeling that things were getting better- were torn away. It seems that all the effort put into getting help and working hard to gain recovery was all for nothing.

But does relapse erase any previous growth or success? Here are five things I’ve learned about relapse from being around addiction in one way or another for 30 years.

Relapse Sucks. For the person struggling with addiction, relapse sucks. For the people around him or her, relapse also sucks. Rebuilt trust crumbles, restful nights once again turn sleepless. Every time the phone rings, it brings with it a dose of panic. These things are common for a spouse or significant other, friends and family members, clergy, counseling professionals, coworkers, neighbors or anyone else involved with the wellbeing of someone who struggles with substance use disorder. But, as someone who survived more than one relapse before I found long term recovery, there are some things to consider.

Relapse Doesn’t Mean You Suck. My experience with relapse came with a boat load of shame. Because I relapsed, I was not only defective, I was broken. Bad. I believed somehow that I deserved addiction and therefore didn’t deserve recovery. Shame is toxic, devoid of any constructive use whatsoever, and in my case, shame prolonged my active addiction and complicated recovery efforts. Shame, quite simply, kills.
Early on, I hadn’t come to grips with the idea that I was battling an illness or disease. What I believed was that because I couldn’t control my drinking or drug use and kept using even in the face of worsening negative consequences, there was something unfixable within me. Today I know that to be false. I didn’t choose to be an addict. No one does. Not you, not your parent, not your husband, daughter, cousin or the guy down the street. I’ve been around this stuff for a long time and I’ve never heard anyone once say that their life’s dream was to become an addict.

Relapse Isn’t a Spur of the Moment Thing. Regarding drinking and drug use, we’ve all heard about people who “slipped,” or “fell off the wagon,” after some time without using chemicals. Along my winding path to sustained abstinence and long term recovery, I used the same language to describe my relapses, usually to my own benefit, to explain to others that I got drunk out of no where after some clean time. In reality what I was doing was trying somehow to magically reduce my responsibility in the whole matter. I was doing great. Then, all of a sudden, I drank! I know, weird, right?

Looking back, I never “slipped.” It never came out of no where. I was never blind sided by a return to using. Instead, there were always doors I had left open or things I hadn’t done, whether intentionally or not, to make it easier to return to using. I kept old friends and relationships. I kept going to parties and bars under the guise of being a “designated driver.” I thought I could handle it. I wasn’t always honest with myself about how serious my addiction was. I daydreamed about using again and thought usually of only positive consequences. When I did think about the negative possibilities, I often minimized, rationalized or denied them. What I was doing was setting myself up for relapse.

Hearing relapse stories, studying relapse, surviving my own relapses and working with others through theirs, experience says that what seems to be a “slip” can usually (if not always) be traced back to something done, or left undone, during early recovery.

Relapse… Happens. Data shows that people with substance use disorders relapse at a rate comparable to people with other chronic illnesses like diabetes, asthma or hypertension, according to the National Institute of Health.

Relapse Can Be A Good Recovery Tool. I would never, ever, never, ever advocate for someone to relapse back to using or anything close to that. Some people don’t make it back from relapse and we face an illness with often heavy negative consequences.
But a point to make about relapse is the idea that it doesn’t always mean using, if you believe relapse is a process, just as recovery is. More often than not, however, the act of using or drinking is what is talked about, because that is when relapse is most easily identifiable. For example, if someone in recovery would stop doing the things they did to get sober, say, if they were to quit going to therapy or meetings, that would be something to look at and find answers for. If he or she were to go back to doing some of the same things they did while in active addiction -hang out in bars, hang out with old using friends, spend a lot of time thinking about the “old days”- they may be areas to highlight as well. A new or reestablished negative outlook (they used to call it “stinkin’ thinkin’), money being spent, whereabouts being unaccounted for… These are just a few quick examples, and when identified and corrected, can help establish a new, improved plan of attack in recovery.

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This, of course, is in no way a comprehensive list of ideas regarding relapse. It is merely a quick sketch of things I have picked up along the way. There are many things to learn from relapse that can help forge a path to long term recovery. Recovery is a journey and relapse can be part of that journey, but it doesn’t have to be the end of it.